Thirst

A pigeon puts its
head down to drink.

Glug-glug-glug-glug
goes

the pigeon’s throat,
handsome crop visibly
bobbing through
obsidian feathers.

Silence; broken
into two, invigoration
sliding with ease
down parched paths…

She looks away for
a second, distracted
by the leaves that lie
in her direction,

and just as quickly,
she turns back
to the task at hand.

The passenger is gone.

A doily ripple

is all that is left of
the portent guest
of drought –

the eternal muzzle
perfectly peeled,

to expose a bruised yolk.

© Zelda Reville

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